Words
by QuietCacophony
Summary: Short Hetalia fanfictions. Each revolve around a single word, maybe a few more; they may be long and angsty or short and sweet. Not exactly the usual romantic fics; these are drabbles that hint at relationships, rarely showing pure romance. These are different kinds of relationships, platonic, one-sided, and all. I put it under 'Romance', for a reason, by the way.
1. Intoxicating - nyo LietBel

It was a well-known fact that Nikolai Braginksy loathed Elena Laurinaitis.

Well, to everyone else, anyway.

To everyone else, Nikolai avoided Elena; he looked down at her, he accused her of everything he could and blamed her whenever his sister got upset.

It was an awfully easy act considering the glaring contrast between the two.

Nikolai was the younger brother of Anya Braginski, a woman that made people tremble with her eerie, sweet smile. And Nikolai was the only person who could scare her, though it didn't seem as if he himself knew it.

Nikolai knew how to fight, to handle knives; he was silent, cold, intelligent and possessive, with piercing indigo eyes and platinum hair.

For Elena, he was simply _intoxicating_.

Nothing had ever fazed her before, nothing as much as Nikolai did. He made her knees go weak, sent burning heat to her cheeks and a thrilling shiver down her spine.

But then, she knew that her little crush was way out of bounds. For why would Nikolai Braginsky spare her a second glance; the shy, unnoticed secretary?

Oh no, Nikolai was not for Elena. Elena was the girl people passed by but never gave attention to unless they needed help.

And besides, them, together? That would be almost laughable.

And what would people say? Feliks, Elena's best friend, would throw a hissing fit at her. And the others...

Well, what they didn't know wouldn't hurt them.

They didn't need to know of it all; of secret, sometimes stolen kisses in narrow halls and darkened offices, of few silent seconds after closing time after everyone else had left.

The first time was long ago, in the corridor leading to Elena's small office on a quiet night. It was a kiss far too long and hungry to be innocent.

He didn't talk about it afterwards, he had left. The next morning he still said nothing and remained cold towards her.

For Elena, however, it had haunted her for days on end, plaguing her dreams and daydreams and driving her imagination crazy.

As did everything that came after it.

But he was always as if it had never happened. They would pass in the halls, with Elena's heart pounding wildly in her chest as she hoped for any kind of reaction, but there was never any as he would brush by her.

It was some sort of maddening cycle, one she desperately tried to escape.

First were those few, breathless, intoxicating moments, and then after that came nothing at all, after breaking apart.

But neither would acknowledge the other until his next move.

Oh, if Feliks knew. These kind of relationships he would make a face at and call 'pathetic'. If he knew it was Elen aand Nikolai's relationship...well, all hell would break loose.

Nobody hated Anya and her family as much as Feliks.

But Nikolai had told her not to breathe a single word about it. He'd told her only once, in a dark corner of her office and with a steely glint in his eyes, but it had branded into her memory forever.

"You are not to tell anyone, you understand, Elena?"

If she closed her eyes, she could remember everything. Lips grazing her ear, fingers closed tightly around her wrists, her name in his voice and...and...him. Everything.

But why Nikolai did it, to kiss her in that corridor on that night long ago, Elena never knew.

It was simple, really.

In Elena, Nikolai saw a fire that burned brightly and passionately. Yet, it was hidden under that mask of submissiveness to others, especially to Anya.

This was the girl who had beaten Gilbert Beilschmidt, the fighter. But at some point, somehow, Anya had gotten to her. And here she was.

But despite his cold, silent act, she knew, or at least, tried desperately to convince herself that he felt something for her. She had to have seen it, even for only a glimpse in those eyes.

Oh, he hardly ever talked to her, even in those moments. Like the first, he would always leave without a word and she was left in the hallways confused and angry and alone.

There hadn't been a single exchange of a simple "I love you". Of course Elena would practically slap herself whenever the thought came to mind.

Nikolai. Saying that. To her. What a joke.

No. Elena was completely enamored with him and he had her totally wrapped around his finger and both of them knew that far too well.

Pathetic, as Feliks would call it again.

Nikolai gave her nothing but empty expectations and nervousness and crazy dreams and disappointment and...well, those dizzying few moments with him.

Maybe she could wait just a bit longer.


	2. Spontaneity - PruAus

Roderich Edelstein's world was small, elegant, familiar. It was where his music stayed, encompassing him with calming melodies that flowed steadily from the piano.

Music, and the world as he knew it, was carefully planned. There was no room for mistake and, should a wrong note escape, the masterpiece would be ruined. Everything had a place of its own and everything must have a strict schedule.

There was no such thing as spontaneity for Roderich Edelstein.

That was until Gilbert Beilschmidt came barreling right into his life.

Loud, callous, daring, obnoxious, brash. And German, though he had always strongly insisted that he was Prussian.

Gilbert Beilschmidt, who had, from the first day they met, irritated the young musician to no end. From when he first literally kicked open the doors and asked him if he was the 'prissy Austrian', oh, Roderich had immediately singled him it as his most hated person on the planet.

He had always cursed rules to hell, said that the monotonous, repetitive cycle of Roderich's life was so utterly boring.

He didn't even bother being polite, that barbarian.

In the hallways when they would pass each other, Roderich would give him the most condemning stare his gentlemanly self would muster; and he in turn was rewarded with leers and smirks and feet that stretched out to trip him.

Gilbert Beilschmidt was strange and annoying and, above all things, spontaneous.

He never seemed to directly obey anything or anyone; nothing ever went according to plan with him around. Oh, no. He loved to make things up as he went along, depended on luck more than strategy, and have a blast while at it.

To Roderich, one raised to predictable events and immaculately detailed arrangements, this unwelcome visitor was the most confusing person he had ever encountered.

If he was compared to a song, Roderich had mused once on a still evening as he sat in front of his piano to play, Gilbert would be a wild symphony; one to be played with quick, rapid movements, a body that swayed with passion and fingers that pounded on ivory keys.

Energetic, lively, bold, unfamiliar.

Spontaneous.


	3. Reminiscence - BTT

It was here, under the shade of the old ash tree, in this grassy hill speckled with blue and white flowers, with the sunlight dappling through leaves and the fresh scent of the countryside, where they last saw each other. Here, where nights were spent singing along to Antonio's guitar, where afternoons and mornings were spent lazily stretching and napping underneath it, listening to Francis gush poems of romance and scoffing at his new 'true love'.

Here, where they met and they departed.

This one tree held far too many memories, weighing down its branches, rustling its leaves with gales of laughter and cries; a silent witness to the years and years of friendship between them, a bond as strong as the tree itself.

Gilbert's great-grandfather had planted it, right on this hill, where it had stood ever since despite the years of wars and storms. Of course, there were always made up stories behind it. It was mainly Gilbert's fault; the time he went home an hour past midnight, from the tree, and his grandfather sternly told him off, adding something about the ghost of a man that was hung on that tree.

It was a joke, of course, nothing more than a story to scare an unruly kid into avoiding lateness. Gilbert, however, believed in it until he was twelve. After that he just went his own way and began to use the story to scare others, with extravagant additions of headless executioners and torture and mutiny. This was the tree that had heard and seen everything; from silent, whispered confessions to secret or first kisses to plans of which pranks to be pulled on a certain teacher. Before all of them went their separate ways, each down a different fork in the road that had not split within a decade.

Five years the separate roads went on, refusing to merge into one wide, single path reminiscent of their childhoods. One led to a warm, peaceful home in Spain; the second to the romantic, moonlit streets of France; and the third to the homely, familiar pubs of Germany.

Five years unable to meet, to go back once again to the shade of their tree on the flowery hill. Five years of relentless exchanges of emails and real letters, small gifts and calls. Five years of being far too busy to be able to arrange any date to meet up, all together, in the sweet countryside they spend half their lives in.

Five years until the calls of Gilbert's distraught grandfather brought the horrible, shattering news that had rendered both Francis and Antonio speechless over the phones.

An accident, they said. A bullet to the chest, in the narrow roads on the way home on a cool, late February night. Ludwig had shut himself in his room for days, refusing to eat or to come out. "It was my fault." His eyes were unfocused, glazed and blank. "The man had a gun, and a wallet in one hand. We were in the way and he panicked, and..." He never finished the sentence, but everyone had by then pieced everything together.

Gilbert Beilschmidt had sacrificed himself for his brother, and lost his life doing it. Gilbert. Annoying, cocky, brash Gilbert, with his bravado and unfaltering confidence, had stepped in front of his brother to take the small piece of metal that had ended his life and banished all that was mortal of him from this world.

"You know, he always said he wasn't afraid of death," Antonio said quietly one night, over the crackling of the fire.

"Did he?" Roderich asked, gripping the glass in his hand tightly. "I'd always thought of him liking the idea of living forever, with a great legacy behind him." But it held no such trace of sarcasm, only of sadness.

"He does live forever," Francis murmured sternly from behind his wine glass. "His memory will." Elizaveta sat rigidly, staring at the fire as if nobody knew that, underneath her quiet facade, she was crumbling at the loss of her closest friend. Ludwig was beside her, and they sat silently together. All of them sat in the Beilschmidts' living room, the evening of the funeral.

"The good die young, but the great will always last," Antonio said, repeating one of Gilbert's favorite lines, but supremely lacking the vigor and confidence the latter said it with. They picked up conversations here and there, fondly recalling all kinds of problems that their friend used to get himself into, those corny inside jokes, and the adventures that he threw himself to for the sake of, well, adventure. Gilbert would never have wanted them to be sentimental over him.

"Listen, if the awesome me ever leaves, you better not sulk over it! I'll be haunting you everyday, both of you; my stalking skills can give Natalya a run for her money." That night, after leaving the house, they went their separate ways in silence, without their friend to fill the empty air beside them.

That night, Francis and Antonio went back to the old ash tree, not quite forgotten, never to be erased from their own vivid memories. It stood, still on the hill with its tiny flowers and soft grass, loyal and unyielding after five years without the unruly kids that used to play under its shade. They had always hoped.

Five years of hoping, yearning for the warmth of the sun and each other in their own somewhere else, for a joyful reunion, for tackles and hugs and an endless exchange of stories that would go on as long as the night, to once again lie down with the grass as their mattress and stare up at the endless expanse of skies spattered with a thousand silver stars.

Here, underneath their tree.

Except not in this way, without the loud boy in between them, his the weight of his arms slung around their shoulders as he would recount childhood memories and new ones, as he would continue to keep them lively and together.

Not without Gilbert.

* * *

_I apologize for this. There's some symbolism going on here, by the way. Ash tree symbolize sacrifice, which sort of has something to do with Gilbert's sacrificing himself for Ludwig. I wanted a tree symbolizing memory or remembrance, but I could find one. Tell me if you do though, I'll edit this thing. Also, Gil dies on a February; the dissolution of Prussia was on Feb 25, 1947. Just sayin'._


	4. Stargazing - UsUk

Another thing Arthur liked, besides the endless shelves of books that lined his room and a hot cup of tea, were stars.

Such a trivial, childish thing; that he was sure others would say. Stars were merely balls of gases and other things floating around the dark expanse of the universe, more scientific than fantastical, he had finally decided once he spent a few minutes thinking about it. "They're nothing more than tiny dots in the sky," was always his excuse; some futile attempt to convince himself that they were nothing of importance.

Though for why, even he wasn't really sure himself.

Maybe it was that stars were almost extinct in his city. Maybe it was that he had just given up long ago, as a little child, trying to see through the thick haze of smog that hung stagnantly over these buildings. Maybe it was that he was simply favoring realism over child's play.

He didn't really know.

So when Alfred appeared on his door with a loud banging and the invitation of a walk to some "secret place", he wasn't sure of what to make of it. He had allowed himself a few hours of slacking; had thrown on a loose shirt, the Great Britain flag long faded from use, a pair of jeans and socks. Behind him, in clear view of Alfred's eyes, the sofa sat in front of his television and its pillows lay in some sort of disarranged nest under the tangled blanket he had earlier stumbled over in his haste to get to the door.

He had haggled with the annoying boy for half an hour, refusing to go out in such a homely get-up, and even more so when the other told him to just get his coat. But when he attempted to close the door in Alfred's face, he had suddenly blurted out, "Don't you wanna go stargazing?"

And so now...well, there he was. On a bench in a cleared out area in the park a quarter of an hour's ride from his place.

It was a breezy evening. He had lots of those, but it felt quieter now. Away from the glaring traffic lights and the sea of people making their ways home, without the uncomfortable weight of his suit and exhaustion weighing down on him.

In this hard, weathered stone bench, with what seemed to him like miles and miles from the accustomed chaos of the city, Arthur almost relaxed.

Stargazing, Alfred had said. Yet as he looked up, he had to strain his eyes to make out half of the stars. Others managed to wink out just enough for him to see, and a few stood out effortlessly, tiny diamonds against black and grey velvet. Constellations would be impossible to find like this. But in all these years, this was the first he had seen this many stars.

It wasn't exactly a disappointment, but it wasn't that great of a surprise either. Still...

He looked over at Alfred, and the other, catching the movement from the corner of his eye, turned to face him. The move made moonlight glint of his glasses, glowing white, and then Alfred offered him a small smile. "It isn't much, I know. I'm sorry, Art."

"Don't be," Arthur murmured, casting his eyes downwards. He felt the taller boy shift beside him, and then felt the cool leather of Alfred's jacket across his shoulders. He blinked, and turning to him again, gave him a small, tight smile.

"Thank you."


	5. Daydreams - Canada x Reader

The train was never anything that interested you. It was simply your ride away from those uppity relatives of yours, whom you really couldn't hate, but got kind of annoyed at; and you were now on your way home, to your laptop, your bed, and your cat. Your three best friends.

The low hum was making you zone off, your eyes unfocusing and wandering off the crisp pages of your new book. You were always the kind of person that could easily slip into daydreams, or just staring into space. These would always end up with people snapping their fingers in your face, or teachers singling you out. Still, though, you never did grow out of the habit.

This time you peered over the top of your book, moving lazily to inspect the people that shared your small space; middle-aged men and women, parents with kids, a few other teenagers. There were only about a little more than half a dozen of you.

But what your eyes settled upon, for the first time, was the blond boy that sat one seat away from you. He couldn't have been older than eighteen. He was wearing a red hoodie a size too large (comfy, as it seemed), and was twisting the white cord of his earphones around with his fingers. Ohh. He was cute. The thought of this made you chew on your lower lip and tighten your grip on your book.

Ah, yes, with the daydreams came the staring of people; you were this sort of...oddity in your class, the quiet girl who spaced out at random times, the one who hardly seemed focused. This didn't mean you were a ditz, though; in fact you were smart, it was only that nobody bothered to look beneath the mask. You hated it, at times. Daydreams, as you preferred to depict, were a mark of creativity. You could very well create scenes in your head, lengthy conversations, whole stories, even. The thing was that, outside, you were staring into nothingness with your chin in your hands and a faraway expression on your face.

You were feeling yourself slipping into one now. Your eyes had completely drifted off the book, leaving your bookmark sticking out from the tight area where pages 27 and 28 met. Maybe it was lucky the guy had earphones on...

A hazy figure floated into your mind, a short scene. Both of you, still on the train, talking to each other; followed suit by sharing his music and humming along. Then came the talking, the walking down the sidewalk together...

You couldn't stop the smile that pulled at the corners of your mouth insistently. Alright, maybe it was sort of weird to be daydreaming about cute strangers who sat near you in trains. But hey, no one but you knew, right? The next image you conjured was one of intertwined fingers, swinging arms and quiet talks. Then came the regular dates. Movie nights, baking, snowy days and hot chocolate and heart shaped boxes and cards in Valentine's...

All that fan fiction you insisted on reading did make you more imaginative. Huh. Not like you'd had an actual boyfriend before, so you really didn't know. Still, you continued to amuse yourself at the stranger's expense, it wouldn't hurt anyone after all.

It was when the train lurched to a stop that you dare peeked over the top of your book; the announcer's smooth voice coming unheard to you as you watched the stranger get up, gather his things and walk out quietly, immediately vanishing into the busy, colorful blur of the crowds.

_ Yea, so this is based after a cute little comic I read on Tumblr ages ago...I have no link to it now, though. Basically, this is reader-chan finding a cute stranger (Mattie) on the train, and begins to imagine stuff. Really, I should go more into detail...but nah. Anyway you can obviously see how I avoided the whole thing with meeting cute strangers and ending up liking them and whatnot. Because, no offence though, most of those are the reader bumping into the character and ending up introducing themselves. I've never seen that happen in real life; most just say sorry and continue on. But eh, the things people do for the sake of romance._


	6. Midnight - PruHun

Elizaveta Hedervary woke up to find her cheek pressed up against her phone, which was currently blaring a ringtone that now seemed to grate excruciatingly against her ears. Her limbs were tangled in the mess of blankets thrown over herself, and she pushed herself up on one arm to glare furiously at the blinding blue lockscreen of her phone - well, as much as her eyes allowed her to, anyway, as she was struggling to keep them open.

There, in the middle of the screen was "Gilbert Beilschmidt" clearly spelled out in white letters.

Elizaveta tried to surpress the frustrated noise that gurgled from the back of her throat. Her finger hovered over the red button; the one that would silence the noise that echoed relentlessly in her room, the one that would give back to her the sweet relief of faceplanting back into the soft pillows. But then, instinctively - albeit with painful hesitance - her finger dragged itself to the left and quickly tapped the green button, submitting herself to an hour of mindless chitchat that consisted of her best-friend-and/or-enemy yapping at her and her mumbling single responses. "

Yea-?" she spat weakly into the speaker, wearily running a hand through her messy russet hair. Goddammit, Beilschmidt.

"Lizzie...?" The tone of his voice made her stop; some of her annoyance ebbing away at the sound of her friend's voice. It was different. Hardly above a whisper. Scared, even. Another nightmare.

"I'm here," she said into the phone. "Are you okay?"

"I...I guess..." he said quietly. There was a soft rustling sound at the other end. "I'm so sorry, Liz, you can punch me in the face tomorrow, I just...it was horrible." He swallowed audibly, and Elizaveta could hear him trying to control his breathing. "I'm sorry for waking you up in the middle of the night."

"No, really, it's okay!" she tried to reassure him. Silence on both ends. She followed the silvery stream of moonlight that slanted through the windows and onto her bed, waiting for him to speak again. She remembered the few times he'd told her about them; his brother and grandfather dying, flashes of a great war, people dying everywhere, he himself. Not quite dead, he'd said, his face paler than she'd seen it and his eyes gleaming. But forgotten, shunned, ignored, merely a figment of the imagination. He'd spoken about feeling as if he was slowly fading away. Sometimes it was something like gradually evaporating, being blown to the wind like grains of sand.

Those were the few times she had seen Gilbert Beilschmidt crumble behind his facade of forced arrogance and loudness. "Do you want to talk about it?" she finally offered.

"I...yes." He took a deep breath. "Oh, Gott, Liz, it was terrible. It happened again." The note of hysteria in his voice made pity gnaw horribly into her gut. As if it was real and not only in his imagination, as if it was going to come true. "Ludwig. It was some sort of war, there was so much blood. He was a little kid in there, but...but Liz, it was like he wasn't. Like he had been commanding the army behind him. I know it sounds crazy, you can mock me now..."

Elizaveta bit her lip. "No, go on. I'm right here." He sighed, maybe with relief. However, it was short lived.

"And...and then...this other guy." He felt his throat go dry, but forced himself to rasp on. "He killed Ludwig. Run him through with a sword. And then the enemy cheered, like it was all they were waiting for." Silence. Any person who was only used to Gilbert's loud, obnoxious side would wait for him to yell out that he was joking and hang up the phone with his laughter ringing in their ears. But Elizaveta knew better. "

You don't need to say anything," he whispered from the other end, so quietly she almost didn't hear. But she was reminded of how bad she was when it came to comforting people, and she stressed that enough to some people. And right now, with only words and not being able to rub him soothingly on the back, it was a lot harder. "I just needed someone to listen."

"Okay..." She inhaled sharply, wondering if she would fall asleep immediately. She surely would have a few minutes ago, but now she wasn't sure. "Are you...feeling okay now?"

"Yeah...and, uh, good night. I'm really sorry for waking you up...it's almost one o'clock now."

"That's okay, I've got hours more to sleep."

"Thanks, Lizzie."

"Yeah," she stifled a yawn. "Good night." "Good night," he murmured from the other end, and she was left with the silence and the blinding light of the screen.

_ Yay, another OTP fic! Anyway, I don't know where I pulled this idea from. I have a Canada x Reader waiting for me in my drafts, but I started working on this and finished it in, what, two sittings? I like this idea of Gil sometimes calling Eli at night because of a nightmare, and every time she does she just listens quietly because she knows nobody really ever does really listen to him. The nightmares she mentions would be scenes from WWII, some of the Berlin Wall of course. And then the dissolution of Prussia, and the one he talks about is the final dissolution of the Holy Roman Empire._


	7. Decrescendo - Germany x Reader

It was a strange thing; to see Ludwig Beilschmidt sitting in front of a sleek, dark grand piano in the middle of this ornately decorated room. You stood silently outside the door, your back pressed against the detailed carvings on heavy white wood, as you held your breath in anticipation.

A shuffling of papers, a strained creak of the stool. In this still, haunting mansion, with its former grandeur and elegance coated with a layer of dust and neglect, and the cobwebs that glinted like fairy-spun silver in the weak sunlight filtering through the arching windows, these sounds resonated loudly through the thick silence.

It began as a slow, hesitant strain, as calloused fingers attempted to warm up to the smooth, pale ivory. As the sharp, calculating mind tried to unearth days and memories perhaps long forgotten; of piano lessons in a brighter, more sunlit version of the very same room.

You didn't know what he was playing; your knowledge of music never extended beyond the confines of the lectures from school scrawled in your notebook. But you watched, enamored, as the stiff, stoic man allowed himself to grow lax and transform into a child again; your eyes widening in bemusement as a smile stretched upon his thin lips.

Immediately he is taken back to years ago. When his feet barely reached the cold pedals, and they dangled from the height of the stool. When his cousin Roderich patiently taught him how to play, smoothly transitioning from simple chords to whole songs in a matter of several weeks; to hear his brothers strange, boisterous laugh as he warns Ludwig about growing up to be a prissy aristocrat.

Though, he knows that Gilbert was even a little bit proud at the time.

Ghosts from memories seem to come back to life, in pale, transparent figures that waltzed around the elegantly tiled floors in swishing skirts and a faint, flowery perfume. The grand chandelier's cobwebs melted away to flare brightly, illuminating the room.

Your bottom lip caught between your teeth as the music crescendos in a magnificent swell of chords. His doubt had washed away with the music, and they were no longer the nervous press of keys of a man who has not played in years. It was a flawless stream, resonating within the thin walls and pressing deeply into your memory.

As the final strains drew to a close, in a smooth decrescendo, you cast your eyes down, disappointed to see the rare smile slide off Ludwig's lips in time to the song. Notes faltered, until the tinkling of keys were the only thing remaining; as if an imprint of the earlier spectacle.

And then the last note vanished, and you turned away from the man who sat still on the piano, the man who would again not play for years, the man who had yet to discover his young fan, who stood loyally outside the door the whole time. The eerie silence had returned, and with it, you made your way out in silence.


	8. His Ballerina - LietBel

The first time he sees her, he finds himself falling into a spell of rapture and enamor.

The first time he sees her, it is amidst the group of sweating performers in their dark leotards allowing themselves to catch their breath on the smooth, polished wooden floor on a five-minute break.

It is when, being the only dancer still in the floor, she caught his eyes with the fluid, almost effortless grace she moved with. He found himself light headed and warm as he watched her watch herself steadily through the tall mirrors, projecting a perfect replica of the deadly, delicate beauty that was the star of the year's rendition of Tchaikovsky's immortal tale of _Swan__Lake__._

Miss Natalya Arlovskaya.

Originally, Toris had come with his friend Feliks for the dress measurements. He'd found himself curious of the thin sketchpad labeled with the title of the ballet, and upon opening it found designs of silver and white costumes, bejewelled and frilled and spangled, each page titled according to the character they went with and the margins littered with excited notes.

And so, over the past few days he had found himself coming along with Feliks, who was allowed to watch since he'd be the one providing all the costumes, and found himself being drawn further into her spell.

It wasn't like she talked to him - oh, no. The few times she had expressed acknowledgement to him were nothing more than a rise of arched eyebrows, or a fleeting, icy gaze.

Her story was a good one, they said. Another rags to riches transformation; a trio of orphans that were beginning to rise to fame, the kind of lives that papers ate up greedily, and then warped and extended for the sake of drawing attention to them.

On a cold, gray winter by an orphanage somewhere by the Russian border near Belarus and Ukraine, the three had met each other, and over the years formed a strong, familial bond that no trip to the city or grand performances could break.

Yekaterina Braginskaya, Ivan Braginsky, and Natalya Arlovskaya; who were now on their way to becoming the newest addition to the hall of fame of ballet.

So the night, Toris finds himself in the middle of an excited, fluttering chaos that is only found behind the curtains that shield the backstage from the eager eyes of the few early spectators, who had insisted on coming minutes before the actual time as so not to miss a second.

Their murmurs, from outside are muffled by the heavy velour, and in turn the audience are unable to hear Feliks' frantic yells for this shade of makeup and that, his native tongue of Polish tripping with the halting Russian he has tried to learn, the shouts of reminders and encouragement from directors and performers alike.

He watches from the sidelines, with all noise shut out of his head as he watches Natalya, surrounded by a group of makeup artists and hair stylists, in the most elaborate, intricately detailed of Feliks' designs.

He sees her trying not to scowl as the dark lipstick paints her lips, and an assistant pulls the silvery laces on her shoes a little too tightly.

In minutes she is ready, and the women working on her step back in awe as she stands up from the cushioned stool.

And Toris cannot pull his insistent stare away; his heart is thudding and the tips of his fingers are tingling, he feels the embarrassing warmth on his cheeks and, oh god, she is _beautiful__._

Later on Feliks would tell him he did his best on Odette's costume for him, and this taunting would go on for as long as the knowledge that Toris was in love with Natalya would remain in his mind; even though the flippant Pole had a mild hatred and fear of Ivan.

And where was he again...? Ah, yes - Natalya standing by the harsh lights of her vanity, adorned in his friend's masterpiece, her fair hair swept into a meticulous twist and held by a jewelled tiara, and her face made with delicate strokes of makeup. She casts her eyes downward, for even being the object of attraction tonight, she remains silent and passive

Somewhere in the darker, deeper parts of backstage someone announces a minute to showtime, and Toris is ushered outside in a flurry of silver and white feathers and layers to take his seat.

When the door slams behind him, he is transferred into Feliks' grip and is dragged through the numerous rows of upholstered seats, and made to sit somewhere in the second row; a place secured by Feliks, who is just as big of a star tonight as the directors and choreographers.

He sinks into the lush velvet, waiting eagerly, impatiently for the first strains of music and the opening of curtains as Feliks calls out to a familiar face a few rows back and begins to talk animatedly; he has even brought the sketchpad of designs with him, and Toris bides his time allowing his eyes to wander over everything in sight in this grand theater.

It is when the lights dim and the crowd falls into hushed whispers that it begins.

Feliks grabs his hand, squeezing tightly as the music begins, a lilting tune the draws all attention to the stage. The whole play flies by quickly in a wonderful, beautiful blur of feathers and silver and music; and yet the only thing his eyes really do follow is his lovely ballerina.

He watches as she moves with that easy grace, twirling and moving and leaping and immediately awing the audience; and again he feels tingly and warm.

However, he cannot help himself from drawing in a sharp breath every time Ivan, as Siegfried, joins with her on the stage. He can hear murmurs and romantic sighs behind and around him, and he again cannot help the strange pang in his gut.

It is such a dramatic story, retold and reenacted so many times, but of course, this time, he really couldn't care less.

When the performance draws to a close and the music is descending from its peak, the dancers have positioned themselves in a line, the crowd roars with appraise and delight, the theater thundering with the claps of a thousand awed spectators.

Roses rain up onto the stage, red and pink and peach, on the feet of tonight's stars. Toris' smile trembles as he throws his own red rose, landing in front of his Natalya. He doubts the possibility of her noticing it, though an insistent part of him keeps hoping she will.

And just before the curtain sweeps closed in front of them, he swears he sees her glance upon it and give him the smallest of smiles.


	9. A Walk in the Rain - FrUK

It was the fact that his pockets and wallet were devoid of any change that made him want to tug at his hair and attack the claustrophobic booth with a rapid stream of French curses that would put the most drunken sailor to shame. Bills, yes, but not a single coin in sight.

It was also the fact that he had purposely refused to bring an umbrella, because a couple of hours ago the skies had promised him a cool, cloudy day.

But apparently, it was not.

Francis watched as rain poured down upon this wretched payphone booth, making a horrible drumming noise on its top that only served to infuriate him further. Rainwater ran down the sides of the booth like a waterfall.

He slumped against the wall beside the phone, running his hand through his hair. His umbrella-less bag lay on the floor at his feet, as if taunting him for his recklessness.

Here, in the outskirts of town and more than five blocks from his flat, an hour into he evening, he is stuck inside a narrow phonebooth in the middle of a pouring rain.

_Merveilleux__._

He had long ago doubted the fact of going out into the rain for the nearest convenience store with his bag over his head. There wasn't one in sight, or at least, anywhere to buy an umbrella.

_Blasted __things__, _he thought with a groan.

Another choice was to call someone, _anyone__,_ to fetch him, but in the back of his mind it sounded something worth a laugh; "Antonio, Gilbert, I'm stuck in a phonebooth and it's raining and I didn't bring an umbrella, could any of you come for me?"

Desperate times called for desperate measures.

But he was planning to postpone that possibility for as long as he could, save it for when on the verge of a breakdown. And besides, both of his friends lived in two other towns. It would make him feel uncomfortable to bother them, even if neither would say he had.

Out of exasperation, he let himself kick his bag against the wall, damn everything he had inside it and to hell with that if he ruined the sandwiches. "_Merde__!" _he seethed, and proceeded to allow the curse freely slip from his lips evey five seconds.

By the time he had actually emptied his bag; turned it upside down and shook it of its useless contents, waiting for the metallic ping of some change, someone knocked on the door.

Francis inhaled sharply, stooping down to gather the scattered items and stuff them into his bag, now slung over his shoulders in haste, without order. The person at the door kept knocking, until he finally, angrily snapped, "Just a minute!"

"Francis, is that you? You idiot, I swear to god, if you have someone else in there - oh god who even makes out with people in phone booths, you're impossible-"

All despair forgotten in the rushed words of the speaker, he suddenly laughed joyfully, feeling a weight immediately vanish from his shoulders, and threw the door open to welcome his savior.

"Watch it, you almost hit me with the door, you-"

"Alice!" he exclaimed, ducking under her green umbrella and gathering the flustered girl into his arms in a tight hug, laughing again with the refreshing feeling of relief and almost lifting her from the ground.

"I..." He had loosened his embrace on her by now, and her feet were firmly planted on the stone ground once again. But still, his arms remained around her, and his cheek pressing the side of her head, and for a few seconds she made no move to push herself away from him.

And it felt like the most awkward, yet most comfortable feeling she had in a long time, unless the umbrella squashed between her left hand and his chest counted.

She cleared her throat hesitantly, a trembling hand coming up to place itself firmly on his chest, and she untangled herself from him.

He grinned at her.

And yet, she only asked a question, simple and to the point, just like she always was; "What _were _you doing in there?"

His lips twitched, but he merely made a movement to shrug his shoulders in response. She narrowed her eyes, making a small movement to push up her glasses.

"Because I heard curses in French, and a lot of noises coming from inside." She paused, as if noticing how wrong the sentence sounded aloud. His grin faltered into a small smirk.

She sighed, clicking her tongue, and stared at his bag. "You can't go home, can you?"

"I...well, no. Not in this rain."

She lifted an eyebrow. "I'd have thought that after living in London for months, you'd know to bring an umbrella every time you go out." She raised her umbrella slightly, so now it hovered a little higher over both of them. "I'm taking you home."

Francis chuckled, allowing himself to give in, and began walking alongside her. The rain continued, and it was dark save for the yellow glow of street lamps and the light windows of faraway houses, and every step created disturbances in the water that rippled out in circles as they made their way to his home.

"You know, it's usually the boy who walks the girl home," he mused when his flat is looming into the view, almost tauntingly, and cast her a glance it of the corner of his eye.

"Tch, as if you have a choice right now," she mutters with a sardonic roll of her eyes. "Good night."

And with that, she turns on her heel and continues down the road to her own home, leaving him smiling to himself as he fumbles for his keys.


	10. Marcescent - nyo Pruhun

Withering - that was it. Wilting, dulling, becoming more and more languid and less and less effervescent with the days.

She didn't remind him of those flowers that grew in her cousin's lavish gardens, the white roses, they were far too delicate to replicate her brash attitude. No - she reminded him of the edelweiss that grew wild and flourishing, scattered upon hilltops and grass like fresh snow that didn't melt. (Though if he'd compared her to edelweiss, or any flower, really, in front of her she would probably scowl at him and turn her back and leave.)

But he'd watch, as she would sit on the porch with her sister's dogs as she always did. But she no longer played with them like she used to; now she settled with just petting them and allowing them to curl upon her lap.

A few times he'd ended up placing his jacket over her shoulders when she'd fell asleep that way. The stars had began to emerge from their curtains when her sister arrived to take her in.

He wonders what she had thought about it upon waking up - or was she too tired to notice at the time? He had gotten it back on the day he visited, but she was sick that day, resting, and her sister had only told him to retrieve his jacket from the cabinet at the end of the hall.

Another day, she was recovering from yet another lapse - it was getting common now and she was getting used to it - he had sat on her bed, beside her.

She was propped up by pillows then, the pallor of her skin even more prominent those days, and he played with the long strands of hair that splayed themselves across her striped pillow. It was strange, really; they were the color of ivory, like the little figure he knew she had somewhere, given to her by her grandfather back from a trip. And even more so, her eyes - pale red, devoid of any pigment.

"Albinism," she'd called it, on the day they met as rowdy little kids a long time ago. He didn't know if she liked it or not, because she had never claimed either.

Back in the present, they spent hours talking of nothing, though there were times where she would just trail off as if she were growing too tired to form words, so he carried the conversation.

They submitted to writing at some point in time. He knew that her right palm and forearm was never void of any sort of writings - names, reminders, phrases in her mother tongue and song lyrics - all found home in her pale skin, each word curling in delicate writing like that of calligraphy and always somehow ending with elegant flourishes. Some had long faded, some smudged, and some stuck out bold and new; black ink contrasting with her pallor.

He watched, transfixed, as she took out a pen and began to write again. Words he couldn't understand at first but soon realized they were names of people around her - her sister and grandfather and the three dogs that has been around for who knew how long, her cousins, her best friends, and his name. He knew long ago she always used her left hand for this; whenever she wrote with her right it came out wild and messy. Like her, some people said, the same ones who would never believe it if they saw how she wrote with her left. Only a few knew so - she could freely send prank letters with it, and nobody suspected. He wondered if she still did things like that nowadays.

"Why don't you write your own name?" he murmured, looking up from his notebook. His cursive is neat and elegant enough (slightly feminine, actually) but never as exquisite as hers.

She paused for a moment, the tip of her pen already touching her arm so that the ink bleeds on it in a small dark splotch. She tilted her head and grinned "I'd rather you do it."

And so he did - but on the pale, clean inside of her left forearm this time, he inscribed as neatly as he can, her name; 'Julchen Beilchmidt'.

She cast her eyes down on it, a lopsided, almost tired smile playing upon her thin lips; lacking the usual cockiness and smugness that appeared in most of her smiles, but a smile all the same.

As she now writes on his own arm his name, he wonders what it would look like if, instead of the trivial little words that weren't her own, her arm was decorated with every word that captured her perfectly.

Boisterous, confident, competitive, entrancing, loud, loyal, stubborn, amusing, brash, strong, outspoken, hardworking...

He cast her a sideways glimpse and wondered why she had to wither.


	11. Waiting - England x Reader

He was never the kind of person to keep you waiting. Always early, always sharp - to him lateness was such a shameful, unrefined thing meant for frivolous people.

To keep you waiting...that would be unlike him.

Since childhood, he was always there. He did all the waiting for you, and never, once had you experienced what it was like waiting for Arthur Kirkland. You remember so clearly - he would sit on the rusted swings on the playground of your elementary school, his bag on his lap and his eyebrows drawn in slight annoyance as your small footsteps pounded the dirt and grass, kicking up dust as well as a dozen quick apologies. He would be sitting alone on a little table in the stuffy library, a short stack of books awaiting the both of you. He would stand under the gnarled apple tree, right outside your middle school building, glaring down at his wristwatch, and at you as you would stumble towards him, your backpack thwacking against your back and your hair a tangled mess that fell into bright eyes and a foolish grin.

Later on, these scenarios inside and near school would slowly, gradually develop into something more. You had been less and less tardy by the time high school made its way through the book of your life, and occasionally you'd arrive at your meeting places the same time as him.

That didn't mean you were never late anymore - old habits died hard, anyway. A running joke between you two had kept up for years; a promise of a series of books of your choice of you would ever end up waiting for him.

"A kiss too?" you had added, feeling your mouth twitch at the corners as you leant sideways, closer to him.

He had merely raised an eyebrow, as if amused, as if kisses between the both of you were such an uncommon thing. Nevertheless - "Fine. A kiss and a series of books; good luck, then." And with a chuckle, both of you headed down the road.

It hadn't stopped there, of course. He would be standing outside the restaurant, the one he'd insisted for a more "proper date", as opposed to the hours at the small, cosy bookstore down his street that both of you enjoyed in mutual silence. He would be standing outside your house as the sun dipped down the horizon. At the front of the school and the night of a party, with loud music and mulicolored lights blaring behind him, on the night of prom, waiting on your front door in a sharp, handsome tuxedo with a rare, warm smile; waiting, always waiting patiently.

These were the memories that wormed into your mind, escaping from the crevices of long, long ago and slipping into the front of your mind. To remind you.

Because for the first time of your life, you were waiting for Arthur.

The cup of tea in front of you is meaningless, an unimportant thing, and you fix your unseeing gaze in the general direction of the pale steam that curls up from the amber liquid. The rung under the chair digs into your calves, cold, smooth metal against bare skin, and the tabletop is exactly the same. Cold. Bright. Unyielding.

You cannot force yourself to look upon pale, tear streaked faces. To bear the sound of sobs and the dooming dial tone of the kitchen phone. To comprehend what is really happening.

Shock does that to people, you realize, but it is merely a thought that hovers over your mind, transparent and the kind of thoughts that never really get inside there.

So when his mother and yours both take a seat across you in the small kitchen of his house, you only feel as if you are hearing the words through balls of cotton in your ears. That doesn't mean you don't have a general idea.

So when Arthur's mother trails off, swallowing a sob, you blink and cast your eyes to the cup underneath you. "If that is all, Mrs. Kirkland, I'd like to know if I am allowed to take my leave."

Both adults excuse your cold, rash goodbye, and the next place you find yourself is the violet streets underneath twilight, and you stumble blindly into your home.

He was supposed to meet you outside your house right now. 7:14, your watch displayed, and with a bitter laugh you realize that for the first time since that careless bet years ago, on a stone bench in late afternoon inside school, you have arrived before him.

You hope, hope so hard it brings tightness to your chest and stinging tears to your eyes, to hear his footsteps up the sidewalk, swift and light, and imagine what he'd say; the tone of surprise and laughter in his voice.

He refuses to materialize, and you push through your front door with a burning pain in your chest, and force yourself to choke out the words on your tongue with a sad smile. "I'll still be waiting for that kiss, Kirkland."


	12. Told You So - PruHun

"I'll never marry."

She curls her lip and he finds himself doing the same, as they swing their legs back and forth, calves hitting the smooth metal of the bench. Above them, petals swirled, curling and scattering with the warm, post-summer breeze. Both cast their eyes upwards, avoiding the chapel that stood old and proud to the left of the park, and the crowd that gathered around the newlyweds that stood at its grand doors, decked in black and white.

"I probably won't, too."

"It's too much of a fuss..."

"...I'm too awesome for marriage."

She raises an eyebrow at him, a smile twitching at the right corner of her lip as disgust is momentarily forgotten, replaced by amusement at her companion's last statement. Here they are, two kids in third grade; sitting on a green metal bench and talking about marriage. Yet, neither of them acknowledge this.

"Tchh. No you aren't."

"Yes I _am."_ He pauses then, a look of determination and arrogance fleeting across his face, adds, "Bet I can prove you wrong someday. You're gonna get married and have to wear a big white dress and _kiss _a _guy._"

But by the time he is finished talking, she has leapt to her feet and is running across the grass - in the distance is her mother's car pulling up - and before he can make a sound or indignation, she waves, and calls over her shoulder, "Bye, loser!"

He echoes the farewell, a bit louder, and as the car begins to move his voice and smile die slowly, gradually, like the sky that shifts from orange to peach to violet above him.

* * *

Eighth grade, she is a flower girl and Gilbert is sitting in a pew third from the front, a smug grin stretching his lips. She shoots him a glare from the step she is standing on - unfortunately, the camera flashes, capturing her grimace and forever imposing as possible blackmail and never to leave the patterned confines of her parents' photo album dedicated to her most embarrassing moments, a hated tome that was kept somewhere they never let her know lest she feed every page to the stove.

As she blinks the last of the white flash from her lashes, the bride announces the beginning of the party, eliciting a cacophony of whoops and cheers from the small group of guests that have gathered for the event. Elizaveta hops down from the steps, forgetting the little woven basket she had set on the floor earlier, and marches her way towards Gilbert with her dress bunched high above her ankles.

"Don't you dare say a word."

He feels his smile wobble as he stares down at her; dark green eyes flash warningly, her fist in between them. Yet, he looks past this and right at her, fighting down the heat that threatens to color the tips of his ear, and says, "You look stupid."

Even though what he's said is the exact contrary - her hair is now shiny, curled and peppered with a shower of jewels, the flowy, pale green dress and the gold dusting her eyelids look absolutely stunning - the statement slips from his lips before he can get a hold of them and, just when he even thinks of grasping them, a solid pain shoots down his left arm. "_Schiesse!"_

"Jerk," she mutters, as she flexes her fingers.

"What, want me to tell you you look nice?"

Her parents are calling for her, somewhere over the din of people talking and leaving the chapel, but she merely raises her chin at him, unsure of what to say. Both of them knew that either option would guarantee Gilbert a hit, either way, so she changes the topic with a sentence that, over the years, she has said as carelessly as she would throw a flower to the wind.

"...I'm never getting married."

"Ah-huh." By this time, only a handful of people are left inside the chapel, so he tugs her arm and motions for her to come outside to take the ride to the restaurant. The skies are a thousand shades of apricot and orange and the stone floor is alight with a thousand multicolored specks of stained-glass light.

* * *

The night is still young, and Gilbert uses this as an excuse for him not to set his eyes upon the homework that has been assigned to him. "You shouldn't take college so carelessly, you know," Elizaveta calls to him as she pulls two small tubs of ice cream from their little freezer.

A noncommittal noise escapes the boy from his position sprawled across the sofa, on his stomach, and the thought of pushing him right off it hovers around the back of her mind when she notices that the channel-flicking has stopped and he is lingering a bit too long on _Project Runway._

_"_You are so gay, dude."

A snort escapes him. "Oh, darling - did I mention you'd look lovely in green?" He props himself up on his elbows, looking for her response to his imitation of Feliks, who was, according to most, gay as pink hell. Gilbert avoided him due to that one time he had his head bashed in by said crossdresser and his friend Toris; that was far, far back in primary school but still. He was wary of Ivan and his group.

"And _you,"_ she says, punctuating her beginning with a slam of the silverware drawer - maybe she shouldn't have gotten him a spoon and made him get up his butt and crawl to it - "would look absolutely fabulous in layers and layers of pink chiffon."

"Strapless and bejeweled," Gilbert sings, pretending not to have heard her previous retort. "Sparkling with an amount of glitter that would make Edward Whats-his-name jealo-"

"I am so never going to marry."

She raises her hand to hurl her spoon at him when the pizza arrives, and she makes him answer the door despite the fact that he's wearing a loose shirt patterned with yellow chicks. The delivery boy, short and gangly, raises and eyebrow at the strange sight, but hands him the boxes anyways.

Elizaveta can't help but laugh.

* * *

Another wedding, and Gilbert does nothing but look out the window, even though he can't because it's heavily stained with deep, vibrant colors that cast light upon the floor and seats, on his lap and on his pale skin.

How many times has he been to a wedding held in this chapel?

He can't do anything rash, because at his right is Ludwig, who wouldn't _really _hurt him but would really take away his laptop for a year and that would be bad; and at his left his Vash, who may or may not be hiding a gun underneath his shirt - bringing a gun inside a chapel, really - so Gilbert can only decide between being deprived of the world wide web, getting shot in the foot, or staying put.

The suit is horribly itchy.

Those flowers are nothing but tacky.

That music is inhumanely slow.

He wishes Elizaveta is sitting beside him; the urge of voicing a complaint aloud is really, awfully strong. But she is not there, she will not respond to his statements with another one of her own, because at the moment she is at the altar, unrecognizable in a gown of white and silver, unrecognizable with her hair pulled up high into an elaborate bun, unrecognizable as she becomes one with Roderich.

Roderich and Elizaveta. Elizaveta and Roderich. Elizaveta Edelstein. Huh, who would have known.

But as she, now a married woman, faces her family with a smile radiant enough to challenge the sun, he realizes maybe she won't turn out to be that all different. Maybe. After all, she is still Elizaveta, still spent her childhood and teenage years with him, and nothing would change that past.

She catches his eye, for a fleeting moment, and with the wink he throws at her he delivers the message he's been waiting to tell her all these years.

"_Told you so."_

* * *

"Are you getting married?"

He looks up at the sky, at the ever-changing spectrum of colors, following the loose petals that scatter to the west. He swings his legs lightly, feeling the cold metal pressed against his skin even through the thickness of his jeans. The bench is now rusted around the edges, worn by sun and rain and years.

"I'm too awesome for marriage."

She turns to him, an eyebrow raised, torn between amusement and disappointment - even after all these years, huh? "You can't be alone forever."

He closes his eyes, leaning back as a huff, a wisp of a chuckle escapes his lips. "I can. Even if I don't want to, I've got Ludwig hanging around all the time. And then there's Franny and Tonio, if I want some company..." _And you, _he wants to add, _will you be there?_

A futile thought, a rhetorical question. Of course not - at least, not in the way she used to. Despite Roderich's many trips outside the countries for meetings and concerts, her visits are significantly less and less constant, irregular; and though he will never admit it he fears the day their only meetings will be upon accident; a glimpse through a crowd, a wave from a window.

She sighs, then, not quite defeated but simply, hoping she can get a positive response from him the next time she asks.

When the sun disappears behind the horizon of buildings and the sky is a pale, pale shade of violet, she takes that as her cue to stand up and leave. "Bye, loser," she says, softly, with her nose scrunched playfully though that doesn't quite distract him from the gentle punch she lands on his shoulder.

"Bye, loser."

He notices that the breeze around him dies as her shadow disappears around the corner.


	13. Aubade - Spamano

_Aubade - a love song sung a dawn, a song of lovers separating after dawn_

The stars are fading.

Lovino tilts his head up, and watches as the silver specks are snuffed, gradually, slowly, and the moon hides coyly from behind a grey curtain of clouds. The distance, the city, is lit with a thousand lights that put the stars themselves to shame, a thousand lights of yellow and white.

In this small, secluded suburb, no noise dares penetrate through the cocoon of silence he has wrapped himself in. His watch, cold and worn, glows a pale white against the ticking hands that display just how early it is. The roof of his house isn't as comfortable as his bed but, really, he doesn't care - even if the shingles dig into his lower back and who knows what's been here, he stays.

Mainly, because he doesn't feel cold, and the warmth of Antonio's arms are all he needs. He leans in, further, relishing in the warmth that courses through his body, steadily, like honey, like the comforting flicker of a fire despite the outside cold. It will be dawn soon. The light will be there to push back the dark velvet and turn it a thousand shades of color and, with that, Antonio will retreat into the shadows of his house again, but never without the echo of promise of return.

Until tonight. Always.

He sighs, fingers intertwining with Antonio's, arms tangling as they sit beside each other on this rust-brown rooftop in the lightening skies of early morning. Hardly romantic, really, or at least less romantic than it had been when there _were_ stars. He bites down a potential smile and instead rests his forehead on Antonio's shoulder.

_"Besame, besame mucho, como si fuera esta noche la ultima vez..."_

Lovino looks up, hazel irises almost disappearing behind squinted lids, as he stares at the other through narrowed eyes. "Why are you singing that now?"

"Well." The corners of Antonio's eyes crinkle as he grins. "Since I can't really serenade you under a balcony at night, then I'll just sing to you on a rooftop at dawn."

The horizon is growing a pale, pale blue, and they know the sun is coming. "Okay," Lovino whispers, warmth growing on his cheeks, and closes his eyes and lets himself drown in the comforting lull of Antonio's lilting voice, a final grasp before they go back. The melodious Spanish is something he cannot understand, save for a few words, but he likes it anyway, and they stay that way until the last vestiges of darkness fade into nothingness and it turns to day again.

"_Besame, besame mucho..."_

The last he hears is a whisper of accented English, a flurry of emotions that swirl within him.

_"For I'm scared to lose you, to lose you afterwards."_


	14. Curiosity - nyo LietBel

**Part 2 of Intoxicating **(I guess)

* * *

He knew of hate, he knew of anger. He knew of contempt, of neutrality, of disgust and disappointment. Saying he didn't know love, however, would be false.

Even though those certain emotions, coming from him, would most likely be interpreted as infatuation and possessiveness.

But as he stared down at the girl sleeping soundly on her desk, her hair free of the usual long braid it was always trapped in, the expression of constant stress and anxiousness void in her face, he felt something he knew would confuse and puzzle him for a long time.

What he truly could have - _would _have done if it were any time before that time, was shake her awake with a scowl and leave her with a harsh, chilling warning. But the hastily organized pile of folders on her desk and floor, the dried-coffee imprints of the bottom of her cup that spattered the top of the desk faintly, and her slumped figure told him not to.

Elena Laurinaitis had always been, to him, nothing else but his sister's secretary, otherwise the girl who got all of Anya's attention, the girl who may have once impressed him but now succumbed to a timid, reserved girl who grew stiff and fell silent whenever he entered the room.

He stood frozen to his spot, in the middle of her darkened office. He was aware of the rain tapping against the windows gently, the still air, the quiet buzz of office noise muffled by the thick walls and the narrow corridor that separated her office to the others. The strange, warm feeling never left him even when he pulled his eyes from her. There was something holding him back from leaving and, no matter how insistently he would deny it to himself, the single answer would be his curiosity of her.

He remembers he stood there until his feet ached, and that he did nothing but study the girl thoroughly, quietly, as if searching for the fire she had once possessed a long time ago; if she was still the same girl who stood up to others boldly, the girl who fought fiercely.

At the time it was only a new, sincere curiosity, but as time went on he found himself hungering for more than a little information.

He found his eyes zeroing in on her whenever she was in the room - _though __maybe __she __always __thought __of __that __as __a __glare__-_and his hands seemingly wanting to move in their own; to brush back loose strands, to be encompassed in the warmth of her own. But Nikolai Braginsky, doing _tha_t, would elicit wide-eyed stares and uproarious laughter. So he kept to himself, cool and quiet, and continued to remain wordless every time they passed each other. Until one night, in the darkness of a corridor and the silence of closing hours.

He kissed her.

He remembers that her fingers tightened around her papers, creasing them beyond repair; the choked, sharp gasp from the back of her throat, and that she practically radiated _warmt__h__. _He left after that, albeit hastily, leaving her alone and in shock with her face and neck burning.

It happened a few more times, neither of them speaking a word to each other after it. It was strange and foreign and thrilling, and he always found her growing stiff and uneasy every time he was within four feet of her; her eyes cast down to the floor, out the window, on the papers, _anywhere_but him. A few times, he had stayed for a few more seconds outside her door after she thought he had left, and heard soft, frustrated curses and angry sighs.

Sometimes he wondered what it would turn out to be if he actually knew how to express his feelings properly - to let all-too-familiar words roll off his tongue as easily as other words did. He wondered what Elena probably thought of now, what _he_thought of this mad, mad sort of relationship.

It was no secret - she _wanted_him. It was evident in those fleeting, nervous glances, her complete loss for words whenever he was in the same room as she, the dark red that tinted her cheeks as he stared into her darkened eyes in her dark of the hallways.

Maybe if he hadn't started out as so aloof, so cold to her, it would be a lot more normal. It was strange, really, how utterly out-of-place those thoughts were in his mind; how before he would scorn the thought of love and other things in favor of his infatuation for his beloved sister. But the conflicting emotions inside him rendered him wordless, unsure of what was proper to say and if it was harmless to, and so he doesn't.

They remain that way, stuck in a frustrating, maddening cycle that neither of them can escape unless one of them says something - _ anything._

He wonders how long they'll be left hanging.


End file.
